Sweetest Dreams
by Anawey
Summary: 1925. Erik survives the beating and tossing in the river, to be found by a young girl who immediately takes a liking to him. Eventually, a surprise is revealed that will lead Erik either to complete peace, or utter destruction.
1. Give Me Death

Sweetest Dreams

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1925. Erik survives the beating and tossing in the river, to be found by a young girl, who immediately takes a liking to him. Eventually, a surprise is revealed that will lead Erik either to complete peace, or utter destruction.

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Disclaimer: I own nothing Phantom of the Opera related. Mr. Chaney did an incredible job at portraying Erik for his time period, but he isn't exactly one of my favorites (partly because I never was completely comfortable with murder without care (in Kay's and the 1990 version, on some level, he cares that he's killed)).

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I _do _however, own Lucette, her brothers Alain, Blaise and Fiacre, and her sister Genevieve, and their parents.

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And now, on to the story.

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Give Me Death  
XxX

Pain.

No sooner would one person remove the object – body part or inanimate – that had struck him, than another slammed into his already wounded body. His heart was pounding, and he could feel blood seeping from multiple parts of his person.

Erik gasped and panted for breath, wheezing and coughing on blood that managed to slide from some unknown wound on his head into his mouth.

He tried to protect himself – he had no delusions about fighting off more than twenty angry opera workers, and so, did not fight back – by covering his face with his arms and curling into a ball, but the mob was relentless.

They pulled him out straight, and someone kicked him so hard in the chest, he heard a crack, and it honestly felt like his heart would stop beating at any given moment.

He saw stars when something hit him hard in the back of the head, his vision swimming and darkening as blood dripped into his eyes.

Erik coughed again. This time, the blood came up from his lungs, rather than tickling his throat on the way down.

"_Monster!" _someone cried, striking him so hard upside the head that he heard a ringing in his ears. His head struck the cobblestones from the blow, and his malformed cheek stung with what was surely a nasty scrape.

Trembling as hot tears of pain and despair trailed down his face, Erik tried to keep a hold on consciousness.

Eventually, they would tire of beating him, surely. Then, once they were gone, he could try to crawl away and hide; find some place to tend his wounds, and either recover and leave France forever, or die like some dog in a gutter somewhere, with nothing and no one.

His only light was somewhere in the arms of another, more than likely very glad to be rid of her poor, unhappy Erik.

_God help me, _he thought, wishing now that he'd died years ago.

The pain was almost more than he could bear, and it wasn't letting up. If the mob did ever tire of knocking him senseless, it would be too late. He couldn't hold on much longer.

Another powerful kick to his chest sent unbearable pain lancing through his entire torso, and he felt his heart clench.

For a terrible moment, fiery agony shot down his left arm, and he cried out, the pained scream earning him a fierce blow to his jaw.

"_Shut up, beast!" _one of the opera workers snarled.

Despite himself, Erik whimpered as fire continued to pulse through his chest. His left arm was nearly numb, now, and he was sure this would be his end.

He started coughing, and the cough increased the pain a hundredfold. His entire body felt like it was on fire. The tears stung the scrapes and cuts on his face from the numerous blows.

The pain was so bad, he wished – even longed – for death.

His heart twisted and stuttered in his chest, still reeling from two devastating kicks, and several more wicked punches to the area.

He was certain most of his bones were broken by now, and he knew it wouldn't be long before death claimed him, and Hell opened its arms to him.

Because of course he'd go to Hell. After all the wrongs he'd committed, before _and _after escaping that mental institution (he was only put there because of his face and his temper, after all), how could he be accepted into Paradise?

No, he was destined to Hell.

In his pain, Erik thought of Christine. His sweet, beautiful Christine.

He could easily blame her for all of this, but it was not her fault she was barely more than a child.

Erik found, that, in what was sure to be his final moments, he could not hate Christine.

After all, who wouldn't be afraid of him? Especially someone as sheltered as his dear Christine had been. And with the belief firmly in her head that he was an angel? Of course she'd been terrified to learn what he truly was.

He was a monster.

He had hopped, though, that she could learn to look past his face in time, to love him, too, someday. But that wouldn't be happening now. Christine was with the viscount, and he was being beaten to death on the banks of the Seine.

He thought of the years he'd spent teaching her to sing, all the effort he'd put into training her voice, and helping her to become a star.

Erik remembered all the long hours they'd spent together, with just the mirror separating them. It had been enough for him for so long! _Why _had he become discontent?

The answer was simple.

Through the years, Christine had become more than just a student to him. He'd fallen in love with her, so deeply and completely, that he could think of nothing but her.

She filled his every thought when he was not with her, and was his sole focus when he taught her, or she sang on stage.

Christine was his everything. He'd poured his heart and soul into her, and he had thought it would be worth the pain the presence of the viscount caused (for surely she loved her Angel more than the boy).

How wrong he'd been. How devastatingly wrong he'd been to think that she could ever care about him.

Erik had realized how little he meant to her on the roof of the opera the night of the Masquerade.

He'd never thought she was so terrified of him before that night. Somehow, he'd always thought she trusted him on some level, that she understood he could, and would, never hurt her.

Wrong again, evidently.

It seemed that his lack of a reaction to the blows only angered the mob. Their strikes became more savage, and then someone stomped hard on his right arm.

Another sickening crack sounded in his ears, and he honestly thought he was going to be ill. Ragged coughs wracked his frame, and black spots dotted his already cloudy sight.

In the distance, he thought he heard someone scream his name – a _female _someone – but he was sure it was just his dying mind and body playing tricks on him.

Much of his body was numb, but he was not completely beyond pain, yet. He discovered this in a way that he was sure would bring on his death.

Quite suddenly, something sharp and pronged was stabbed into his stomach, and he choked, vomiting up blood and bile, gasping and coughing as he struggled to keep a handle on his painful breathing.

Each inhale sent fire sparking through his rib cage, on top of the pain already spreading from his heart. Erik could barely stand even shallow breaths, and he longed for the end of his life, for the pain to stop and leave him. He would even go so far as to welcome Hell, if it meant an end to _this. _

Because this was worse than Hell. The blows rained upon him were rapid in succession, and unending, and he was only growing weaker. It shouldn't be long before he died.

Surely he would not be denied that mercy now.

Finally, as his strength was leaving him, and his spasming heart was at last about to cease its beating, the blows stopped.

He was lifted up, and for one moment, he thought maybe they'd had a change of heart, and would bring him somewhere for help, but then he was falling, and the dim little hope that had been borne inside him fled with the remnants of his consciousness.

The last thing he registered was water all around him, and then all turned to darkness, his mind flying away from the pain, and his life-blood that stained the azure waters of the Seine a deep and cloudy crimson.

XxX

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Explanation:

I've looked it up, and seen it mentioned as an insurance worry on Mythbusters, that blows to the chest, if they are hard enough, can affect the heart _very _negatively, and Erik's heart troubling him at all is a throwback to not only Erik's ultimately fatal condition in Kay's version (though this will be much less permanent than in the novel 'Phantom'), but to the original ending for the 1925 version. In the original script, the end had Erik dying of a heart attack at his organ just before the mob got there.

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Anyway, I hope you all liked this, and please review!


	2. From the Waters

From the Waters  
XxX

Wild laughter rang down the stretch of beach. Sand flung up as running feet sped along.

Blaze, the youngest boy of the five Laurent children, chased after his little sister, Genevieve. His flame red hair – why he got his name – bounced as he ran.

Blaze's twin, Fiacre, was ahead of him, urging their sister to go faster. Blaze smirked, and increased his speed as well.

He _would _catch them. Well, at least _one _of them.

From the top of the tall boulder that jutted out into a quiet section of the Seine, the two elder siblings watched the little ones play.

_Lucette, _watched them, anyway. Alain was preparing to run off the edge of the rock, and dive into the water.

"Oh, just make up your mind, already," Lucette sighed. "If you're going to jump, Alain, do it. If not, get away from that edge before you fall and crack your fool head open."

Alain glared at his sister. Lucette was the eldest of the five children, with their father's red hair, and their mother's blue eyes. Alain had blonde hair, but, like their mother, his eyes were sky blue.

Both brother and sister were in their teens. Lucette wore glasses, like their father, and little Genevieve, who was still so small for her age.

Even though she was only five, the tiny blonde girl ought to have been taller.

Genevieve was a pale little thing; delicate, and fragile in build and health. Her hair was a very light blonde, almost white, and she, like her older siblings, had blue eyes.

The twins, Blaze and Fiacre, had the brown eyes of their father.

The Laurents were a large family, and happy. They had each other, and that was all they needed to be kept together.

They weren't rich, but they had enough money to get by, and to take care of Genevieve's asthma. Their home had four bedrooms, but the final one stood empty. The children liked to double up; the three boys shared one room, and Lucette and Genevieve had the other.

Their parents loved each other, and all five of them. That was all they would ever want, or need.

"You're always worrying," Alain commented, noticing his sister's gaze trained on the three young children playing about the sand bank. "She's not so ill as to drop dead if you look away."

"I never said she was," Lucette replied, indignation creeping into her voice. "I know she has her strength, brother. I worry about _all _of them. They are running fast, and there are hidden rocks and roots everywhere."

Alain laughed quietly, and flicked Lucette's shoulder, which she hated.

"You worry to much," he insisted, grabbing her into his arms.

Lucette screamed when her body left the ground, and she fought against her little brother, but Alain was only a year her junior, and stronger.

"Put me _down!" _she screeched, kicking and thrashing in his hold as he walked toward the edge of the rock again.

"Alain, don't you _dare!" _Lucette hissed, glowering at the sight of his wicked smirk. "Alain, _no! Don't!" _

Her voice became panicked as he reached the edge of the rock. Lucette could swim, but she'd already dried off.

With one last twisted grin, Alain tightened his grip on his sister, who was still struggling madly to escape him, and jumped.

Lucette gasped as the water closed in over her. And when she broke the surface again, she saw Alain treading water there next to her. Angrily, she splashed him, swatting the water so that it flew into his face.

Alain shouted, and turned away in the water. Lucette began to swim back toward the shore after she splashed him, and walked toward her other brothers, realizing at once that something was wrong.

"Where is Genevieve?" she asked, eyes widening as she looked around, realizing that their little sister was nowhere on the sheltered little beach.

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Genevieve saw her brothers abandon the game of tag the three of them had been playing. She watched Alain try several times to jump off the high rock, and did not laugh at his nervousness; _she _would never be brave enough to even climb up to sit on the big stone, let alone jump off of it.

Genevieve _hated _heights. It scared her to no end to be so far from the ground. She much preferred the solid earth beneath her feet.

But exploring was something she enjoyed. She blinked behind her glasses, holding up her skirts as she wandered away from the sandy area, and into the trees beside the river.

The little beach was a sheltered cove. On both sides, the ground rose, and the riverbank became steep, and overgrown with roots and fallen logs.

Genevieve forgot about her siblings back on the beach, and wandered along the top of the bank, tiptoing barefoot through the trees and the undergrowth.

As she walked, she realized that she would be missed, but something told her not to go back. Some unseen force pulled her forward.

Coming up a little hill, she found a beautiful little cove, even more sheltered than the beach.

But this space was not like the beach. Here, it was rocky, and there was an oddly shaped log half in the water.

The log was straight, and disappeared beneath the surface of the water. That was not the unusual part. There was a vaguely person shaped bulge half-in, half-out of the shallows.

Curious, Genevieve crept forward. Some part of her suggested that she be wary, but still she moved carefully toward the figure.

About halfway down the small embankment, she realized that the figure was human, and male from the width and set of his shoulders. Quickening her pace, Genevieve hurried to his side.

"Monsieur?" she called quietly, slowly approaching and kneeling at his side. "M'sieur?"

Carefully, she reached out, and pushed at his cloaked shoulder, until he rolled limply onto his back.

He was clearly an older man. His beaten hands were thin and the veins stood out in relief from his skin so that they almost looked like thin coils of rope layed over fine, but pronounced bones.

A frail, weak little moan escaped the man's twisted lips.

His face was terribly disfigured; pale, almost completely translucent skin stretched taught over his high, prominent cheekbones, deep set eyes, and a nose so twisted and pinched that it almost wasn't there.

The man was badly beaten, and around his abdomen, the shirt he wore was torn, and Genevieve could see three puncture wounds, evenly spaced, but jagged, as though something akin to a pitchfork had been roughly stabbed into him, then ripped back out. Blood stained the area.

His horrid face was covered with cuts and bruises, and one eye was completely purple and swollen. There was an awful lump on the back of his head, dried blood crusted the skin around his nose and near his temples as well as the other cuts and scrapes, and it was very clear that his right arm was broken.

The poor man's breathing was frightfully shallow, and was growing more labored by the second.

Genevieve pushed some of the thin, soaking strands of hair out of his face, and found that it was very warm. Worried, she gently touched his hollow cheek.

"I'll be back," she promised. "I just have to get my brothers and sister to help. Don't worry."

Standing, she turned and ran as fast as she could, scrambling up the steep hill, despite the fact that the doctor had told her parents never to let her exert herself much, because she had asthma.

Genevieve ran as fast as her small legs would carry her back toward the beach, wishing she could go faster.

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"She wouldn't go far," Alain said, glancing around. "Genevieve!?!" the thirteen-year-old called out, scanning the trees around the beach.

The four children knew their little sister wouldn't go far. She liked the woods, but she hated being on her own. Any moment now, she would reappear, having been in the area the entire time, just around a corner.

"Genevieve?!" Lucette screamed, eyes darting left and right. As the oldest, it was Lucette's duty to watch over her siblings, and little Genevieve was closest to her.

There was a crashing in the woods to the left, and everyone turned to look as Genevieve came stumbling and gasping out of the trees.

She tripped and fell, coughing and wheezing.

Lucette was first to her side, pulling out Genevieve's medicine; a bottle of ginkgo throat spray to ease away the attack and help the little girl to breathe.

"Where did you _go?!" _Lucette demanded once Genevieve's breathing was back under control.

Still slightly out of breath, Genevieve, stood up, and started back toward the woods.

"He's hurt!" she worried, pointing into the trees the way she'd come. "We have to go help him!"

"Who, Genevieve?" Lucette asked gently.

"The _man!" _Genevieve replied. "He's in the woods! He's been hurt! I promised him I'd get help!"

"A man?"

"Your imaginary friend?" Fiacre teased, earning a cuff upside the head from Alain. "Ow!"

"He's _real!" _Genevieve stormed, though tears were gathering in her sky-blue eyes. "And he's in trouble! _Please! _We have to help him!"

She was crying, and Lucette remembered something about too much emotion triggering an asthma attack. She moved at once to calm her little sister.

"Alright, Vieve," Lucette said gently, using the old nickname for her little sister. "Show us where he is."

Genevieve nodded, and led her four siblings through the woods to the little grove where the man lay.

He was in the exact position she'd left him in, on his back, and he was still unconscious.

Even from this distance, Lucette could see his gruesome face and the blood that covered it and much of the rest of him. The sight brought a gasp from her lips.

Alain was the first to react, and knelt at the man's side. He pressed the first two fingers of his right hand to the man's neck, then held his hand just above the badly split and bruised lips to feel for breath.

"He's alive," Alain said quietly. "We've got to get him home. He'll die out here." Placing a hand on the man's forehead, careful to avoid the many cuts, the teen found the man's face burning to the touch. "He's ill."

Still horrified by the twisted features, Lucette managed to come back to herself enough to kneel next to Alain, and help him lift the man's torso off the ground.

He was clearly a tall man.

"Blaze, Fiacre, get his feet," she instructed.

Slowly, with Genevieve clutching the man's wrist to make sure his pulse was still there, the five siblings made their way home, carrying the man with them.

They all hoped – Genevieve especially – that he would be alright.

XxX

Chapter two is done! And to those of you who've read my other stories, don't worry, I'm not abandoning them. I just felt the need to get this thing out of my brain. It's been in there since the night before this past Halloween, when I last saw the Chaney version of Phantom.

I hope you all liked this. Review, please!


	3. At Death's Dark Door

At Death's Dark Door

XxX

Monique Laurent was sitting in the living room, stitching a hem, when the front door burst open to reveal her five children.

They were carrying a strange man, who looked badly beaten, and unconscious. If she hadn't heard his frail groan, Monique would have thought him already dead.

She started at the sight of his face, all twisted and malformed, but she shook herself, and moved forward to help her young ones get him to a bed.

"What happened?!" she demanded breathlessly, looking at her children.

Lucette was the first to speak.

"Genevieve found him in the woods," she explained, shaking slightly. "H-he's been hurt, badly, Maman. C-can't we do anything?"

Monique nodded.

"Let's get him upstairs, _mes petits,vite."_

She shouted for Martìn, and her husband went wide-eyed and pale at the sight in his living room.

"Don't just stand there, _vous homme bien-aimèe bouchè_!" Monique snapped. "Help!"

He blinked, then moved at once to help his family.

The man was so light that Martìn could carry him in his arms, as he did with Genevieve at times when they were playing, or she were ill.

Carefully, he balanced the strange, beaten man in his arms, edging sideways up the stairs so that he could fit with the man.

The stranger's face made Martìn wary. The small town of Leòn, where the family lived, was not so far from Paris that he hadn't heard of the dreaded 'Phantom of the Opera'.

In fact, the old story teller who lived alone down the road – Monique always took him a basket of food, every day – would weave tales of the Opera Ghost, and his haunts, where he came from, who he really was.

It was all stories, Martìn knew, or at least, he _had _known, until this stranger had shown up. His face was the same as the one from Old man Jacques's stories, besides the multiple lacerations and other injuries.

It wasn't until Martìn had gotten the man into a bed in the spare bedroom of his ancestral home that he realized just how severely he was harmed.

His face was practically flayed bare from the many nasty cuts and scrapes, and there was a horrid lump on the back of his head.

His right arm was broken so that the bone was sticking out through the skin, and his left leg was in a similar state near the ankle.

The stranger's once-fine shirt was tattered, and filthy with blood and dirt, and through the rip, he could see the stab wounds. Only a sort of pitchfork could have given the injury.

But Martìn could also see a large couple of deep purple bruises at the edges, and carefully peeled back the torn satin shirt.

The shirt was crusted to the man's skin with dried blood, and pulled at the fresh wound. In his unconscious state, the man gasped in pain, body sent into a spasming fit of shivers as his chest heaved, and he made a sound almost like choking.

A moment after Martìn let go of the shirt, letting it remain where it was, the shivers stopped, but the man continued to make the sounds.

From her meager midwife training, Monique recognized the heaving chest and choking noises as a coughing fit; the man was simply too weak to actually get the coughs out.

Quickly, she moved forward and piled the pillows so that he was in a more inclined position. After a few seconds, the fit died away, and the man's breath returned, though it was still far too shallow for comfort.

Genevieve moved forward, opening her mouth to speak, but Monique shook her head, motioning for silence, and that they ought to leave the room.

"He was unconscious when you found him?" Martìn asked after a quick dinner, looking at his youngest daughter.

Genevieve nodded.

"He was part way in the water, Papa," she explained. "And he was really warm. Is he going to be okay, Papa?"

Martìn let out a breath.

"I don't know, _mon duce un," _he replied quietly.

"But you said he was feverish, Genevieve," Monique interjected, looking to the little girl. "Didn't you?"

Genevieve nodded.

"He was very feverish, Maman," Alain piped up.

Monique nodded.

"Call Dr. Vert, Lucette," she instructed.

Lucette nodded, and went to the phone to call the older doctor.

Meanwhile, Monique went to check on the man, get him cleaned up, see if she might be able now to wake him.

Gently, slowly, Monique first slid the torn trousers off the man, forgetting to avert her eyes when she saw how severe the break in his leg was.

When she came back to her senses, she gingerly pulled the blankets up to his waist. The man hissed in pain in his sleep, but did not wake.

Now came the obviously hard part. The gasp elicited by the pain of Martìn trying to move his shirt earlier had caused a coughing fit which could quite easily happen again, and turn fatal in his condition.

But Monique knew it would not be good to leave the shirt on, so she began to work _very _carefully at removing the torn, ruined dress shirt.

She felt pity for the man, and sympathy, as well as a violent disgust toward whoever had hurt him.

There was no doubt in Monique's slightly superstitious mind that this man was Paris's infamous 'Phantom of the Opera', but she also knew that men did not become monsters unless they were brought to it by others.

What horrors had led this man to become the Opera Ghost of legend and nightmare?

Shaking her head, Monique did her best not to hurt him further as she ran the wet cloth across the man's bare chest. The wounds in his stomach were red and angry-looking, inflamed and slightly swollen. Perhaps that was part of the reason for the fever.

"Why would they do this to you?" she whispered, gently washing blood from one slender hand.

The Opera Ghost was thin, frail-looking, and quite obviously not immortal.

Nor was he young. Such serious injuries would be dangerous for a youthful, healthy man, but for an older adult, who was weak also with fever, and so rail-thin, they were almost certainly fatal.

The bruises on his chest seemed especially ominous, even more so than the broken right arm and left leg.

But there was nothing Monique could do but get the man cleaned up; she was a midwife, not a doctor. All she knew she learned from attending births, and that was a far cry from broken arms and stab wounds to the stomach.

Monique heard the front door open, and with a breathed word of thanks to God, hurried out fo the room, and down the stairs to meet Dr. Vert.

XxX

Chapter three! Wow, this is going on a lot quicker than I thought it would. Huzza!

Review, please!


	4. The Road Will Be Long

Yay, new chapter! Sorry it took so long. This story started out strong, and I hope to keep it that way.

The Road Will Be Long  
XxX

Dr. Vert was a bit on the portly side. He was somewhere in his sixties, and a very friendly, if superstitious and old fashioned person.

His brown eyes were small behind his spectacles, but they always twinkled brightly. He had deep brown hair, streaked with grey, and a warm, open face.

Now, however, he was looking nothing but professional, and a bit alarmed.

In all his day's he'd never seen someone so badly injured.

The first injury Dr. Vert tended to was the pitchfork-given stab wound in the man's stomach. It was deep, though it did not pierce all the way through.

The wound needed stitching, and Dr. Vert carefully, quickly, sewed it closed, and gently maneuvered so that he could bandage the area.

With the most severe injury attended to, Dr. Vert turned to what he was sure were cracked ribs.

There were three broken, one higher up, and two in the mid-section of his chest. Dr. Vert splinted the his patient's chest, and bound it. He wasn't sure it wold be enough, but it was all he could do.

That taken care of, he moved on to the broken leg. He pressed the bones back into place, and stitched the wound closed.

When it was splinted and wrapped, he did the same with the arm, then wrapped the sprained ankle.

Very carefully, he probed the man's head, fingers gently exploring and examining the large bump at the back of his head.

Gently, he lifted the man's head and bandaged that, making sure to not put too much weight on the bit of a goose egg at the back of his head.

Looking at his face, Dr. Vert could see that the man's jaw was quite clearly fractured, and some of the cuts on his face would need stitching as well.

He was obviously ill, as well.

The cleaning up Monique had done had saved him for the time being from infections, but the severity of the injuries, as well as the rattling cough that had finally made its way out of him, could easily still kill him.

Dr. Vert sifted through his bag, searching for what he knew would dull the man's pain, which was obvious, despite his being unconsciousness.

Finding the bottle of morphine, he poured a measured amount of morphine into a syringe, and carefully took hold of the man's uninjured arm.

At the elbow, he inserted the needle of the syringe into a vein that was easily visible against the taught, pale skin.

The man's thinness was also a concern for Dr. Vert.

He had never seen anyone so rail-thin before. The poor man looked like a skeleton, with barely skin enough to cover the muscles and bone.

It was a miracle he'd survived the injuries thus far. And with the illness in his lungs, it would be very hard for him for a very long time.

"Will he be alright, Monsieur Vert?"

The doctor turned to see the little girl, Genevieve, standing there in her nightdress, clutching an old teddy-bear in her delicate little hands.

"Monsieur?"

Dr. Vert sighed.

"I believe so, little one," he replied. "But he will be very ill for quite some time. You will need to help your mother and father, and siblings take care of him until he is well."

'When will that be?" Genevieve asked, tilting her fair head to one side.

Dr. Vert smiled gently.

"It will be at least a couple of weeks, or more, little mademoiselle. But have faith. He'll be alright in time. Now get yourself back to bed."

Genevieve nodded, and turned away, plodding back down the hall to her room.

When she was gone, Dr. Vert sighed.

There was no certainty that the man would survive. In fact, there was only a very slim chance that he would last the night, let alone the next week.

With great care not to move the man too much, he poured a little cough medicine into his mouth, rubbing his patient's throat to stimulate swallowing.

The man coughed weakly, his breath catching and shuddering painfully.

He was still completely unconscious – not that Dr. Vert had thought he might wake – which was hardly a good sign. But he at least should have given some slight reaction to noise, or touch.

Dr. Vert sighed.

In all, the man had a fractured jaw, a concussion, three cracked ribs, his right arm and left leg were broken, his right ankle was badly sprained, there was the wound in his stomach, and aside from multiple cuts, abrasions, and bad bruises, his lungs were filed mucus that rattled with every breath. The fever, too, that burned in him, was much too high for his own good.

It would be a miracle indeed if he survived.

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"Is he really that bad, monsieur Vert?" Monique asked, worriedly. Not only was the poor man so ill, he may die very soon, but what if one of the children caught whatever illness had infected him?

Dr. Vert nodded solemnly.

"I am afraid so, Madame Laurent."

The doctor leaned in close to Monique and Martìn, and lowered his voice before continuing.

"I would not wish to upset your children, Madame, Monsieur," he whispered. "But it is very likely that it will be a dead man who lies in that room come morning. I find it a miracle that he survived what he has been through thus far."

Monique sighed. She'd known his chances were slim the moment her children had carried the man through the door.

"Also, I believe you know who he is," Dr. Vert said quietly.

"The Phantom," Monique breathed, looking down.

"You take a great risk harboring him."

Martìn shook his head.

"He's still human. How could we let him die and still call ourselves Christians?"

Dr. Vert sighed.

"You are good people. I only hope your kindness does not put your family in harm's way."

Monique smiled.

"You will keep this secret, then?"

The doctor nodded.

"Of course, Madame Laurent," he promised. "After all, it is a doctor's duty to protect the injured and sick."

Once Dr. Vert left, Monique and Martìn turned to each other.

"We must go through with this now, Martìn," Monique sighed. "The poor man needs someone. Even if it _is _just to care for him until he passes. It's only right, after all."

"It is," her husband agreed just as quietly. "But tonight, sleep, _mon bel amour. _Remember the baby."

Yes, Monique was pregnant. Her stomach was only just starting to grow round, but the baby was there, inside her, waiting patiently for its time to enter the world.

"How can I forget?" Monique smiled. They had their five children already, but the home – ancestral to Martìn's line – was not going anywhere, and they had enough money to get by.

Current situations would not bankrupt them, however long a road they would end up traveling with the injured Phantom of the Opera.

XxX

Chapter is done! Next should be up soon. Hope you liked it everyone.

Review, please!


	5. No Further Harm

Hey guys. This would have been up sooner, but my internet's been a bit wonky lately. I think it finally fixed itself.

No Further Harm  
XxX

Erik did not die that night.

When Monique went to check on him in the morning, he was still breathing, his breath coming in short, quick gulps in an attempt to avoid pain.

Monique quietly changed the compress on his forehead, and spooned into his mouth the medicine Dr. Vert had given her for him. The old doctor had also shown her how to administer a syringe of morphine into his left arm if he showed any signs of additional pain or discomfort.

He looked terribly weak, lying there.

He was covered in mounds of blankets and bandages, his right arm lying on top of the covers wrapped in a sling.

Monique felt for him, in his condition. When he began coughing, she held him up so that he would not choke on anything that might come up.

Nothing did.

The coughs were barely more than sharp, quick wheezes; he didn't have the strength to cough up any of the muck in his lungs.

Which was why Monique was quite surprised to see weak gold eyes slitted-open as she lay him back against the pillows.

He struggled and gasped for a moment, wheezing and trying to get enough air to speak.

Monique silenced both his attempts to speak, and his shaking movements with gentle hands carefully placed on his shoulders.

"Easy," she whispered, turning to pour him a glass of water. She held it to his lips as she continued to speak. "It's alright, monsieur. Just drink slowly, so you won't choke."

He was barely awake long enough to drink the water.

Monique sighed. This was going to be a long, hard road for the man. But at least he'd woken up, if only for a second. She would call Dr. Vert to let him know that the man had survived, and that he'd even woken for a second.

But for now, she stayed at his side. He was sweating buckets from the fever, and so Monique carefully changed the sheets on the bed, and the nightshirt he was wearing. It was difficult, and several times, the man whimpered, his already twisted face scrunching with pain.

Monique stopped halfway through changing everything, and administered the morphine to dull his pain. Once she was sure he could feel nothing at all, she carefully moved his arms to remove the sweat-soaked nightshirt, and replace it with a clean one.

She pulled the clean blankets back up over him, smoothing them around his chin to be sure he was warm, then left to call the doctor.

Dr. Vert had been pleased to know that his patient was indeed still alive. He stressed that she keep on with the medicine as he'd prescribed it, and to keep him in bed should he regain consciousness long enough to try and get up.

The man needed to be kept warn, the doctor said, as these first days would be crucial to his recovery.

Little Genevieve was the first to ask about him.

"Maman," she asked, her eyes wide, "is the man going to be alright?"

"I don't know, _mon petit," _Monique replied. "He woke up for a moment, which, I suppose is a good sign, but it is far too early to tell how he'll fare. Go eat lunch, little Vieve. I must go see to our guest."

Monique spent much of the day in the room, watching over the man and taking care of him. Dr. Vert had said he would need almost round the clock care that first week, if he was to survive.

It was sundown when he woke again, this time with a bit more clarity.

He was still too weak to speak connectedly, and could barely manage more than a feeble rasp.

Still, he was determined to ask his questions.

"W.... wh-here...... a-am.... ah.... I...?"

He was gasping, nearly choking from the exertion it had taken him to get out the three words.

Monique worried; he was awake, yes, but he still was in great danger of slipping away.

Gently, she put her hands on his shoulders to still his attempts to sit.

"Easy, now," she whispered. "Hush, monsieur. You're safe here. This is my home, in Leon. My name is Monique. My children found you in the Seine. Can you tell me your name, monsieur?"

Another round of rattling gasps followed as he tried to pull in enough breath to speak.

".....E-erik..." he managed, wheezing weakly.

Monique nodded.

Erik tried to move his left arm, and aside from the pain of the bruises and cuts there, was met with a terrible pulling sensation in his chest that stung into his shoulder. He gasped, eyes wide as his body shook. He began coughing, and Monique sat him up, patting his back until the coughing stopped.

Once he'd stopped coughing, Monique held a glass of water to his lips, softly instructing him to drink.

"Slowly," she warned. "You're very ill, and badly hurt. But I'll help you." She carefully lay him back down against the pillows, and pulled the blankets up over him. "Get some rest, now."

Too exhausted and drained to argue, Erik closed his eyes, sliding off into deep sleep again.

Monique sighed. If he lived, the road was going to be long, but it had begun, at least. He had a

chance, now.

-

-

Dr. Vert came the next day to check that the healing process was beginning.

Erik was unconscious the entire time. He was still weaker than a kitten, and his chances small. But Monique and Martìn would not let him die. The both knew he deserved something of a life.

"If he starts to get better, he may wish to move around," Dr. Vert warned. "Keep him bed at least a month. His ribs will take time to heal, and it will take time for his heart to heal. The damage done by the cracked ribs was not permanent, but it will be quite some time until he is at his full strength."

Monique nodded.

"I won't let him do further harm to himself, Monsieur Vert," she said, determination in her voice.

Dr. Vert sighed.

"You're set on helping him, aren't you?"

Again Monique nodded.

"If he is indeed the same Erik that was supposed to be the Paris Opera Ghost, he deserves a chance at happiness. I've heard it said he was sent to Devil's Island, simply because of his face. Such a thing is unforgivable."

Dr. Vert smiled.

"May God keep you all," he whispered. "I must be going now. Old Madame Leroux is ill. Pneumonia, you know. And her all alone in that house, after her husband's death."

"It's a shame," Monique agreed. "Poor dear. The next time we see you, I'll have something for you to take up to her. Good by, doctor."

"_If _indeed," she sighed, turning back toward the room where Erik lay. "There'll be no 'ifs' if I can help it. I _won't _let that man die."

Martìn sighed.

His wife was a wonderful person. She'd sooner die herself than let even a rat or an insect die. Even pregnant, she would let no further harm come to her patient.

XxX

Yep, Erik's woken up, if only for a second or two. But, it's a start, right?

Review please!


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